 | Mundi et Cordis |  |
211
XXIV. THE WOOD.
Why, here we are alone: the dark trees waveTheir fingery branches in the ceaseless wind;
And grass and moss the tangled pathway pave,
Where daisies lift their heads, in vestal guise,
And open their snow-white and pinky eyes
In beauty which the shadows of the wood
Too chastely cloister. Let me read the mind
Which gushes o'er thine aspect, like a flood,
And thence draw warranty. It is derived!
In that eye-glory is my passion shrived!
Our lips kiss quiveringly; again!—no more!—
Thy very life seems stifled in held breath,
And a dim shadow sweeps thine eyelids o'er—
A nearer greeting were delirious death!
| Mundi et Cordis | |